Mistake
by KCS
Summary: Story arc told in 221B drabbles, similar to "Missing," and based on a past drabble. Cross-posted to new LiveJournal community. Retirement AU.
1. Prologue

Inspector Lestrade gawped in amazement as the prisoner he was collecting practically sprang at him, shaking like a palsied man.

"Get me out of 'ere!" he wailed, hiding behind the astonished Yarder as a pale figure stepped from the bedroom. "'E's a madman!"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Holmes, what'd you do to the fellow?"

"Nothing," the detective said flatly, his voice more chilled steel than was typical. "Merely said I would take it as a personal favour if he would attempt to flee, so I could shoot him for trying to escape."

Lestrade noticed the detective was clutching an army-issue revolver as if his very life depended upon it …the call had merely said there'd been a shooting…oh, good Lord…

"'E said 'e was gonna kill me," his cringing prisoner whimpered. "Said if the bloke I shot didn't live then the Doctor wouldn't be the only one to not see another day!"

Lestrade faced the stony consultant. "I wondered why we were told to come here, not the house where it happened," he said sternly.

Holmes blinked impassively and turned to re-enter his bedroom.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"What."

"Would you really have killed him?"

Holmes glanced down at the Doctor's revolver he still clutched. "Perhaps I was not referring to him," he answered hollowly, and shut the door of his bedroom.


	2. Truth

He would look back upon that night with fond horror, to in retrospect see how perfectly happy they had been, how placidly routine the case had been. Twenty years in each other's company had made them more a single unit than two individuals, and they functioned beautifully as such; an efficient machine well-lubricated with the oil of mutual respect and affection.

There had been no logical reason for things to go wrong…or so he frantically endeavoured to convince himself now.

They had secreted themselves within the house as they had a hundred times before, melting easily into each other's shadows like the true team they were. Watson had stepped on a creaking loose board; Holmes had teased him about growing old and overweight. Watson had retorted with the comment that he was growing old and cantankerous, and they both had stifled easy laughter in the drapes behind which they took refuge.

The exchange of information had gone as the elder Holmes's agent had instructed it would; the false papers were received, the treason-money changed hands, the evidence was all upon the table, smooth as clockwork.

There had been no reason for the world to fall apart.

No reason, but his own slowness. And that truth was every bit as physical an agony as his friend was suffering in that hospital bed.


	3. Mistake

They had apprehended the two agents with even less trouble than usual; by that point in time most criminals were not so foolish or even so desperate as to risk taking on the Holmes-and-Watson in a fair fight.

The matter had been so volatile their orders had been not to involve the police until they got the traitors to Scotland Yard, and so they were (much to Holmes's pleasure) free of official interference for the moment. The two prisoners went docilely enough, and they had reached the front stoop and bricked pavement beyond when the elder Holmes's agent met them to take charge of the recovered plans. They put the two agents in the waiting carriage, handcuffed to each other and the door handle, and then conferred briefly outside the vehicle.

Somewhere in the process, the Doctor's walking-stick slipped from his hand, clattering on the pavement as he glared after it ruefully. Holmes smiled and quickly bent to retrieve it.

And then flattened himself on the pavement, covering his head, as a far-too-familiar explosion annihilated the night's stillness.

His brain registered in one swift instant both that he had forgotten to check for a lookout, and that that was an unforgivably stupid mistake.

He did not have time for any further deductions before a body collapsed beside him on the bricks.


	4. Blood

He had always scoffed at the trite phrase _time stopped_, but in that instant he became a believer, for it did. He more sensed than heard two more bullets whine over his head, one of them striking the carriage and spooking the horse. The agent swore loudly and hurried to its head.

And if the agent were the one soothing the horse, then that meant…

Time began again, as well as his breathing, with a sickening lurch that twisted his stomach. He scrambled up as the agent hurried back toward them – _him_? Was he alone now?

His brain categorised in disgustingly clinical terms the deep graze to the temple, the amount of blood already seeping into the brick-work underneath, the deathly pallour of the face…

…the fact that had he not leaned down, the bullet would have lodged in his own brain.

His hands were too numb, his mind too terrified, to check for a pulse; and the agent knelt to do it instead. Even the evening wind paused, holding its breath for a wrenching second, until the agent looked up and began to remove his jacket.

"He's alive at least," he answered doubtfully, tearing at the sleeve-seam. "But heaven only knows for how long…"

He did not need to be told that; he could see the ghastly amount of blood.


	5. Anger

A sharp slap from his brother's agent before the man returned to stemming the blood-flow reminded him to breathe again, and he was too grateful for the oxygen to be humiliated.

The entire fiasco had only taken about a minute, if that, and he felt his brain beginning to wreck itself with indecision. He knew logically that if Watson were not conscious now, then he certainly would not be so for hours. _If he lives, that is_, his rationality insisted upon clarifying.

The man who had tried to kill all of them was even now fleeing, and he knew the by-ways and alleys of London better than the sniper. Much as he grew ill at the thought of leaving his friend in such uncertain condition, he would not allow such an animal – for he was no more than vermin, to be exterminated by any means possible – to escape capture.

And execution, if it came down to it.

Cold rage began to slowly freeze its way from his mind down to his heart. Thin fingers ghosted against his friend's cold cheek for a single instant, and then he reached into the right-hand coat pocket to retrieve a familiar revolver, expertly checking the chambers.

He briefly wondered if it were so very wrong to hope he had occasion to use all six bullets.


	6. Cold

He finally turned his head away and lurched to his feet, shoving the revolver into his pocket with the hand that was not clenched in an effort to quell the nausea churning in the back of his throat.

"Get him to a hospital, and spare no expense," he snapped, wondering how his voice could remain so coldly steady when his throat and chest seemed to be shaking themselves apart bit by bit.

Indeed, unbeknownst to the world, he owned a small fortune to keep him comfortable for life, and would most gladly spend it all and more if it would only save the one thing that made his life worth anything – to the world who unaccountably seemed to love him from a storybook; and more importantly, to himself.

"But – but – I have two prisoners, and I can't put him in there with them…he doesn't have time for an ambulance! What am I supposed to do with the two spies we caught for your brother?"

"Shoot them if you have to," came the death-chilled reply, as the detective took one last look at the motionless form upon the brickwork, blinked rapidly for a moment, and then sprinted frantically after the fleeing criminal.

The agent tightened the impromptu bandaging and repressed a shudder; here he had thought Mr. _Mycroft_ Holmes was cold blooded.


	7. Missing

The agent opted instead for hand-cuffing the two confused criminals to the nearest lamp-posts. He perceived a bobby strolling down the street, and one flash of Whitehall-sealed identification got him immediate aid in getting the wounded man into the carriage. He left the intimidated constable to guard the prisoners until Mr. Mycroft Holmes could be contacted; he was not looking forward to explaining the mess to the older man.

The agent near had a heart attack when Mr. Mycroft Holmes bolted from the Diogenes immediately upon receipt of the message, and met him at Charing-Cross. The world further spun from orbit when he saw his employer's face as the man hurried – actually half-running, if such movement could be so termed – up to him while he was filling out medical paperwork the best he could.

He had known the elderly man cared deeply for his younger brother and his friend despite his usual iciness, but had not realised just how much until he snatched the papers from his underling's hand without a word and promptly turned as white as the medical forms themselves.

"This was a routine case! How the _devil_ could something have gone wrong?" the elder Holmes demanded harshly. He stopped in sudden suspicion; only now, after the shock had faded, realising something was terribly wrong.

"Where is my brother?"


	8. Love

The agent gulped and wished fervently that his employer had chosen a different man for this case. "He…went after the sniper."

The elder Holmes's watery eyes contracted, indicating his mind was immediately playing out the most likely scenario along with a few others less probable; sifting each until he found a proper course of action. The medical forms accordioned as his employer's hand clenched, further shocking the agent. For a moment the older man closed his eyes in troubled silence, and then decisively unfolded the papers, smoothing them and beginning to scribble the necessary information for the waiting nurse.

"I want you to wait here until I return," he spoke evenly without looking up from his work. "I shall talk to the police, and see if we cannot prevent another possible murder tonight."

The agent shuddered, remembering the look in the younger Holmes's dead eyes as he fled the scene earlier.

"How bad was it? Exact detail; do not try to break the news lightly."

"Frankly sir…the man's skull must be a foot thick for him to still be alive," the agent muttered uneasily. "And he hit the pavement so hard…it doesn't look good at all, Mr. Holmes."

He paused over the next-of-kin line captioned _Relation to the patient:_ for only a fractional second before scrawling _elder brother_ in indelible black.


	9. Struggle

Ordinarily a chase through dimming twilit streets and alleys would fill him with exhilarated triumph, the thrill of the chase. This time, he barely noticed that seedy characters gave him a wide berth, women pulled their children into alley door-ways, and even the dogs hid, tails between their legs, as he pounded after the man.

Occasionally he would stop for questioning, but no power in heaven or hell or any other universe would prevent him from finding the man – no, not man. Monster.

He was close, judging from the frightened looks he received as he pelted down the alleys in the half-gloom – there! He glimpsed the same dark grey overcoat as a pair of flying heels disappeared into a pitch-black alley.

He was not so stupid as to go in unprepared for an ambush, but just the same was not exactly expecting the man to jump upon him in the dark, rather than shooting his silhouette. Either not over-bright, or else out of bullets for his weapon.

As the detective swiveled to slam the fellow into the stone of the alley wall, he cursed far more viciously than the gasping sniper was; he drew the line at shooting an unarmed man.

For now.

He did _not_ draw the line at clipping the man ferociously over the head with the gun barrel.


	10. Die

The man came to his senses via a stinging slap from a fury-driven hand. Eyes wide, he stared up at the face hovering over him, a terrifying mask of contorted rage and grief. Then he let out a terrified yelp as he was hauled up, out of the alley into the gaslit street. He had no idea who the fellow was that had him so painfully by the collar and twisted arm, but he was not a policeman.

"Where…where are you taking me?" he stammered once inside the cab the gentleman had hailed.

He found himself stabbed by twin points of burning steel. "To my house," the man replied in a snarl, his face inches from the cringing thug's. "So that if I kill you I can tell the police I had the right, that you were breaking and entering. Simplicity itself."

The chap wasn't kidding, he could see that in his look. "K-kill me?"

"More like execute you," he replied coolly, though his eyes' fire belied any sense of calm his voice exuded. "If the man you shot dies tonight – and I vow this by everything I hold dear – he will be swiftly followed by you."

_And by me perhaps,_ he added mentally, for he was not at all sure this amount of guilt was physically able to be borne.


	11. Failure

Such a petty little man, to have gotten off such a lucky shot in the twilight and to now be terrified out of his wits by the cold rage ruling the detective's actions. One click of a cocking revolver – his Watson's revolver – was enough to keep the vermin from even moving a hair in effort to escape.

After being informed that Holmes would count it a personal favour if he would attempt the feat so that the detective could shoot him, he had decided it would be smarter to sit motionless.

Pity. But if the man thought that silence would prevent the sentence of execution from being carried out he was highly in the wrong. If Watson died tonight –

_If_, he had to hold on to that _if_. He simply had to. The dear chap had survived too much to be taken down now by a lucky shot…

…one that had been lucky only because of his own carelessness.

His negligence.

His mistake.

His failure.

His fault. His fault and his alone. What had he been _thinking_? _Had_ he been thinking? Had old age truly made him so complacent he would gamble with the only thing in the world he was utterly terrified to lose?

He might as well have pulled the trigger himself. He was just as much to blame.


	12. Murder

When he looked up and saw that his visitor was Mr. Mycroft Holmes, all other thoughts fled his mind; the man had visited the Yard…once? In twenty years or more?

The air in the room suddenly chilled. The elder Holmes collapsed into the nearest chair, and came straight to the point.

"My brother is or will be shortly holding a criminal at his flat in Baker Street," the man stated, calmly enough. "I need you – yes, you sir, and do not argue with me or I shall have words with the Superintendent; Sherlock trusts you – to take the man off his hands before he does something regrettable."

Lestrade's small eyes widened. "What…am I bringing the criminal in for, Mr. Holmes?" he asked slowly.

Was it his imagination, or did the older man's watery grey eyes suddenly grow more watery? "As it stands now, attempted murder," the official whispered. "And it looks probable that it will turn to murder before the night is over."

Lestrade was not as smart as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but he had learnt a thing or two about deduction.

And it didn't take a consulting detective to suddenly realise exactly what had happened, nor a doctor to know he was about to be sick at the realisation that if they lost one of them, they would lose both.


	13. Fear

The ride was interminable; he was quite convinced that time was again pausing around him. That was a good thing, though; for it meant if the worst were happening it would not happen until time started onward again, correct?

Just the same, he wished for nothing more than to _know_ one way or the other – he had to know, he _must_ know. His mind could not settle upon a course of action when so fraught with uncertainty. He had to know, so that he might decide upon an appropriate response. _If_ he could decide, which he was beginning to doubt as his mind raced along like a runaway train careening into a station platform, destroying everything in its way.

He was strangely aware that his brain was quite resourcefully churning up the possibilities, categorising them in sickening efficiency. There could be nothing more than a severe headache and bloodloss…there were varying degrees of concussions…there were combinations of the two.

There was possible death.

And if not, there was more than probable brain damage.

He was not sure which thought turned his hands to ice and his heart to a constricted mass of tense muscle, barely able to pump enough blood to his brain to prevent it overloading on the medical statistics it insisted on retrieving from the files in his brain-attic.


	14. Relief

"I've no idea what got into him, sir," said she in a worried whisper. "He just hauled the man up the steps and then locked me out of his bedroom and the sitting room."

He patted the woman's shoulder, unable to answer her tearful queries regarding the Doctor, and continued up the steps, wondering exactly how to go about this. With Mr. Holmes, it had always been better to be direct, but if the man was not himself…

He decided to knock first, but upon receiving only a cursed reply he calmly kicked the door just above the lock with the flat of his good foot, popping it open on the instant.

Barely missing being impaled by a glare so full of raging hatred that the face behind it was nigh unrecognisable, he stared at the petrified scoundrel who sat cowering on the settee, wide-eyed like a frightened rabbit caught in the cross-hairs of a rifle sight.

"Mr. Holmes," he began, and gulped at the sight of the twitching revolver. "Your brother sent me…to pick this man up?"

He wondered for a moment if he were both willing to and capable of forcing the detective to relinquish his prisoner. Then reason lit the dead grey depths of the amateur's eyes, and he nodded mechanically.

The inspector whistled out a relieved breath.


	15. Helpless

He wondered how Mr. Mycroft Holmes had known precisely what his younger brother would do and where he would be…and also what would have happened had the elder Holmes not sent him in before his brother got the news that the Doctor…would either live or…

His throat spasmed.

"Get him out of my house. Now." Mr. Holmes's voice, chilled steel with an edge of acid.

"We are," he replied gently. "He's not going anywhere but to the filthiest holding cell we have."

He received only a dismissive snarl. He was not a man to intrude on another's privacy, and though he doubted the wisdom of leaving Holmes alone he was forced to acquiesce.

However, when he turned back and perceived the detective carefully inspecting the Doctor's weapon with those eyes, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, he stormed back into the room, dark eyes blazing.

"Don't you _dare_ even _think_ about it!" he snapped, quite viciously in the sudden horror overtaking his realisation. "And especially not with _his_ revolver!"

There. Finally some emotion twisted into the detective's expressionless face, which now looked as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Utterly aghast, Lestrade could only watch helplessly as the supposed brain-without-a-heart slid down to the floor, his head buried upon his arms upon his updrawn knees, and began to sob brokenly.


	16. Crisis

The outburst was brief but violent, and while it made him highly uncomfortable he realised it probably was a good thing. The detective needed to release that tension, if it had really been nearly two hours since the shooting and he had been keyed up to that high of a pitch the entire time.

After almost twenty-five years of association, he was glad that Mr. Holmes apparently did not feel that he needed to justify his reaction. Nor did he attempt to stop the Inspector as the man carefully slid the revolver away from him and emptied the chambers into his own pocket.

The younger man did not raise his head from his arms, however, until Mrs. Hudson suddenly burst breathless into the room and pushed a folded note toward the Inspector. He unfolded it for the bleary detective and scanned it swiftly.

"Well?" Holmes's voice rasped hoarsely.

Lestrade felt a tiny smile of at least temporary relief brighten his face. "He's still alive," he gasped. "But your brother says you have to get there _now_ – Mr. Holmes, you'll break your neck taking those steps three at a time!"

He threw the near-weeping landlady an apologetic glance and sprinted after the younger man as the idiot rushed outside, his whistle for a cab nearly shattering the gas mantles in their brackets.


	17. Nightmare

The attending surgeon had not been thrilled to discover that the intimidating presence dominating his waiting-room was not actually a blood relation to the patient, but upon the fellow's calmly proving that he wielded the power of the government and could have the entire facility shut down if he so chose, he wisely decided to waive policy.

He explained the situation in as concise and sympathetic terms as possible, but even so his heart went out to the man. A dying hope had still lingered in his eyes until the end of the medical jargon, whereupon it finally flickered and was extinguished.

A small hurricane of commotion outside bespoke the arrival of the younger brother, and a moment later the fellow rushed into the room, his eyes latching immediately onto the elder's. The surgeon was puzzled at the lack of physical similarity until he saw the same barely-concealed fear upon the younger's gaunt face. and then released all doubts as to their relation. He mentally steeled himself for another reaction to the news he was preparing to reveal, not liking the unsound looks of the younger brother.

This was the truly horrible part about his job. Stabilizing the patient was cut-and-dried medical procedure, relatively simple.

Informing loved ones that the patient might never wake up from a coma was anything but.


	18. Grief

The physician was about to recommend that the younger brother put his head between his knees, but apparently the elder Holmes was quicker than a usual man of his bulk. He shoved the younger into the closest chair, keeping steadying hands on his brother's shoulders as he shuddered, trying to regain the breath that had been suddenly stolen from his lungs.

"I am very sorry," the surgeon apologised helplessly in answer to the older man's question. "But we have no way of knowing. It could be days, weeks…even months. It could be not at all. We simply don't know."

"Then find someone who does!" the younger Holmes abruptly exploded. "You are a doctor - you are supposed to know these things or at least be able to consult someone who does!"

"Sherlock, that is quite enough," the older brother snapped, though not harshly for he understood what was fueling the blind anger. "This is not his fault!"

"No," he whispered brokenly, turning his face away as it twisted in sudden agony. "No, it is not."

The older brother gave his sibling a sudden penetrating look, and his brows knitted. "Nor is it yours, Sherlock."

The hopelessness in the younger man's expression painfully indicated the first time in twenty years that he refused to believe the words of his trusted elder brother.


	19. Bitter

"I _can_ tell you that if he survives the first ten days, he stands a much better chance of waking. I am sorry, but this is a relatively unknown field."

"What exactly _is_ known?" the older man inquired.

"Less than our profession _should_ know," the man admitted uncomfortably. "And tests differ as much as their subjects do. Some patients recover fully; some partially. In fact, that is the most likely possibility. If you, Mr. Holmes, are assuming responsibility for the patient, you will need to consider what course of action you will take if he does wake and is severely brain-damaged." He disregarded the drain of blood from the younger man's already-pale face, doggedly continuing. "But some patients…"

"Do not wake at all," the older man finished matter-of-factly.

The physician nodded. "Also, some patients have been proven able to hear and feel stimuli, but others cannot."

"You mean he might be able to hear me?" the younger Holmes whispered.

"I cannot falsely promise you, but it is a definite possibility."

"Then I want to see him," he replied hoarsely. "I…I must tell him something. In case he…" He refused to voice the thought, some irrational part of his brain insisting that if he did not voice it, the possibility would not become eventuality. _In case he never leaves that hospital bed._


	20. Darkness

It was not until an intern popped in, informing that there was a plain-clothes policeman wandering about, that Holmes remembered.

"Lestrade," he groaned. "I had completely forgotten him…"

"I shall deal with the Inspector; I must discuss how to keep this from the papers, as I shall not tolerate your being accosted by reporters," his brother stated, resolutely burying his own grief until a more convenient time.

Holmes winced. "Tell him…tell him thank you," he whispered. "For…what he prevented me from doing."

He was well aware that his brother knew exactly what he had been contemplating; he always had known, somehow. And Holmes was glad, for that meant one fewer person to whom he must explain his unaccountably emotional reactions.

Even after many years of long-sufferingly being taught about not shunning, but merely controlling, emotion…even so, the intensity of what apparently lay buried in his fiery nature still could shock him into senselessness.

His throat constricted at the numbing knowledge that his patient teacher might never feel any emotion – feel any_thing_ – again. After somehow penetrating his self-forged iron defenses, Watson had managed to find his very soul and guide it out of the choking blackness that constantly hovered over him.

Now, that warm light had been snuffed in one miscarried instant.

Holmes had never been so afraid of the dark before.


	21. Fight

Lestrade had steeled himself for the worst, but that did not prevent a chill of horror when he was told the details by Mycroft Holmes, along with what exactly had happened and why the younger man was completely unstable at the moment.

Lestrade understood probably better than Holmes himself why he was so distrait, and vaguely fumbled to comprehend that the Doctor might possibly never be with them again. His own grief paled, however, when the surgeon emerged from the waiting-room with the younger Holmes, who appeared even more ghastly now than he had earlier, animated by rage.

Now he merely looked as if his entire world had dissolved around him, burying his heart and soul in the ruins – and perhaps that was close to the truth.

"Lestrade," he muttered hoarsely.

"Mr. Holmes," the official returned awkwardly, wishing he could say something to alleviate the liquid pain in those grey eyes. "I…I am so sorry."

Holmes blinked suspiciously, whispering a thank-you, and the Inspector suddenly felt the urge to reassure the man.

"He'll be all right, Mr. Holmes," he promised rashly. "Just wait and see – you know how bull-headed he is. He's a soldier, you know, and won't give up."

He was rewarded with a half-choked sobbing laugh from the younger Holmes, and a heartfelt, grateful look from the elder brother.


	22. Emotion

"The bullet only grazed the skull; a slight fracture, but not as severe as we anticipated. There were simply too many factors working against us. The shock of such a wound, and striking the pavement as hard as he did soon after…and, if you will pardon me, Mr. Holmes…he is not a young man."

_None of us are,_ the detective mused miserably as he absorbed this information.

"The swelling so far has been minimal," the surgeon offered in reassurance. "That is at least a good sign. Unless unforeseen events change that, he might escape with only minor brain damage. Ah, here we are, Mr. Holmes."

They stopped before a modest door, identical to every other, and the detective shivered convulsively at the thought that his friend might melt away into being just another medical statistic.

"You do understand this is highly irregular. Usually we would only allow family to see a patient just out of surgery, in this condition." The physician's eyes softened; for he had only rarely seen such a heart-deep reaction to tragic news from anyone but an immediate family member. "Might you indulge an old man's curiousity…just what is this gentleman to you?"

Holmes stiffened, thin fingers clenching on the door-knob to mirror his locked jaw as he bent his head for a moment.

"Everything," he murmured bleakly.


	23. Help

Mycroft Holmes's only response to a nurse's asking if he wished to take possession of the Doctor's belongings was a jerking twitch, but Lestrade hastened to volunteer to have them cleaned. Gratitude had never been so sincere.

"My brother will be staying with me tonight, assuming I can pry him out of that room," the older man sighed. "Might you…"

Lestrade nodded. "I'll speak to the landlady. Will you be posting your own guard 'round this place, sir, or shall I send a couple of men up? I guarantee there'll be a whole regiment of volunteers. Your brother and the Doctor are practically one of us, you know."

"Actually that would be very welcomed, as I shan't be able to take care of formalities until tomorrow, and I rather think my attention will be engaged with my brother. Thank you, Inspector." The elder Holmes's eyes softened. "It will only be necessary for a day or two; if he remains stable I intend to see him moved to more comfortable – and more equipped – quarters, perhaps a sanatorium closer to the countryside."

The Inspector well understood why; not just for the patient's health but also for Holmes's well-being. All the man needed in that condition was for the wrong person to say the wrong thing, and heaven help London when the pyrotechnics began.


	24. Silent

That was the hardest thing he had ever done, forcing himself to open that door.

Harder than that first morning after Watson's marriage, eating breakfast alone; harder than watching him walk away from the Falls; harder than seeing him weep after reading that thrice-damned note that signified the worst mistake of his life; harder than discovering Watson had lost the only other person in his life he loved with all his soul.

But none of them had settled such a lead weight into his already heavy heart as this one action did, of closing the door behind him.

_Be positive,_ the physician had said kindly. Never be despairing about Watson's condition, because they had no way of knowing if he could hear. Cheerfulness was completely out of the question at the moment, however; even he was not so great a thespian as to perform that convincingly.

He swallowed hard and noiselessly crept over to perch on the edge of the bed. For a moment he could have deceived himself into believing Watson was merely sleeping, for he appeared peaceful enough. This was a somewhat familiar position, for there had been occasional cases where one or both of them had ended up rather worse for wear.

Only this time, when he whispered to his friend, his solitary answer was slow, shallow breathing.

.


	25. Blind

The lack of response was the most chilling factor; even under the influence of medication, even smothered in the depths of the deepest nightmare, Watson had always responded at least slightly to his voice or a gentle hand.

Now, there was nothing. Only motionless silence.

He had never liked silence, because it amplified the demons of his mind.

Watson had often wondered why he was never bothered by the city but despised the countryside. It was the lonely and silent nights that he disliked with all the fervor of his overactive imagination.

He tried to speak, choked on the words, and viciously coughed his voice free from where it had stuck.

"They said you might be able to hear me, old fellow," he finally managed, though he wondered if Watson would know his unrecognisable voice or just the tone. "I…I hope that you can." Trembling fingers twined through unresponsive ones. "I…will continue to believe that you can, and you must prove me correct, d'you hear me? You are simply not permitted to die in such an inglorious fashion. You are _not_ going to die."

Realising he was not making much sense, he swallowed the obstruction in his throat and tried again. "But that is not what I came in here to tell you," he whispered, wishing his vision would cease blurring.


	26. Choke

"Long ago, Watson…I said I owed you a thousand apologies," he spoke at last, forcing words past a constricting throat. "And to my recollection I…never gave them. You and your ridiculously wonderful forgiveness…you never made it necessary."

He risked losing the tendrils of composure he was desperately clutching, by glancing up at his friend's face, pale as the bandage that encircled his head. He shivered and wondered if, wherever Watson was…was he as cold and lonely as he himself felt right now?

He wrapped his other hand around Watson's unresponsive fingers, unconsciously curling them against his own to give the illusion of a returning grip where there was none.

"But I know…" he gasped in a small breath of oxygen to calm his straining lungs. "I know that I must give them now…if you can hear me, Watson, please…please know that I am so very, very sorry." His voice thinned to a whisper. "For being such a – a perfectly selfish idiot when you announced your engagement…for refusing to accept your invitations to social events afterwards…for never finishing those dozens of letters after my supposed death, to tell you I was alive…for not being at your side when you buried your dear wife…and…a-and…"

Mycroft Holmes gently opened the door just in time to hear his younger brother's control shatter and finally break.


	27. Blame

Silently Mycroft Holmes remembered when Sherlock would never turn a hair at things that would make most men scream in terror or weep with despair; one thing he owed the unconscious man upon the bed was his brother's heart.

Now was not the time for such sentiments, however; he could do nothing for Watson save preventing his brother from complete nervous collapse. He proceeded to stave off that eventuality with a firm grip and firmer words.

"That is enough, Sherlock," he murmured kindly. "We need to leave now; it is well after eleven."

A shudder rippled through the thin frame below his hand. "I…I am not ready yet," the younger man whispered. "I haven't –"

"If you are planning to apologise for the evening's events, then do not waste your breath," Mycroft enunciated sternly, "for they were _not your fault_, Sherlock."

"How can you possibly say that?"

"Did you fire the shot?"

"No, of course not –"

"Then you are not responsible," Mycroft answered softly. "And the Doctor knows that. You are doing no good to either of you, berating yourself for something that was beyond your control. You know this is not what he would want – what he _wants_."

He swallowed thickly as his brother looked up for the first time, revealing the eyes of a lost, frightened little boy.


	28. Light

"What am I going to _do_, Mycroft?"

He had been asked in his career countless questions that would stymie the most brilliant of minds, but this desperate plea was the worst he had ever faced answering.

"For tonight, you are going to come home with me and sleep, if I have to give you a powder to ensure you do," he answered slowly. "In the morning, you shall care for the police formalities and investigate the private sanatoriums I shall recommend, so that he can be moved to a more expensive and efficient establishment. You will then ensure he receives the best of care, while I see to financial matters."

The younger Holmes ghosted unsteady fingers over the unconscious man's bandaged head for a moment, his entire body obviously pleading for a response – any response – and cruelly receiving nothing.

"And then what?" he whispered dully, dashing at his eyes with his free hand.

Mycroft Holmes gazed sadly at the injured man, and then answered the question the only way he knew how.

"Then you will remain strong, and not give up hope," he replied firmly. "Because you well know he would follow you off a precipice if you so bade. Be a strong enough example that he must be _compelled_ to follow you back."

The younger man's cloudy eyes suddenly brightened.


	29. Grasp

He had left quietly enough, leaning close to whisper a good-night into the unconscious man's ear and then turning the gas down to a glow before following his brother. He looked back only once, just long enough to offer up a fervent plea that Watson would stay strong, and then silently closed the door upon the bed and its motionless occupant.

Their cab ride was just as silent as The Room – he had already begun to think of it as such – had been. He was quite willing to put off returning to Baker Street and all the memories it held, at least until the daylight could dislodge the darkness hovering over him.

Mycroft had barely finished changing before his brother was already curled across the spare bed in an exhausted sleep.

Only after removing his sibling's shoes and jacket and starting on his cuff-links, did Mycroft realise the younger man's clenched fist was gripping the Doctor's pocket-watch (taken from the parcel of non-clothing items Lestrade had sent to the government agent's apartment) so tightly he would have an imprint upon his palm, come morning.

One did not have to be a consulting detective, nor a Holmes, to observe and deduce that his brother had been weeping, fighting sleep and the nightmares that were certain to emerge, before finally losing the battle.


	30. Late Nights

He was awakened in the dawning hours; not by screaming, as he had half-anticipated, knowing Sherlock's horror of an imagination, but by a whiff of smoke and the subsequent mental leap that his flat was afire.

"Sherlock…"

"I _had_ to, Mycroft…I did open the window," his sibling began a scattered apology, which the older man silenced.

"I was not going to take you to task for smoking in my house, Sherlock," he replied, adding with a grimace, "though I would prefer you do it on the landing outside next time."

The younger curled himself up into as small a ball as possible, his head against the wing of the chair. Mycroft settled nearby amid a creaking of springs. For a moment Holmes stared morosely at the dancingly cheerful sun-rays. Then –

"Do you really, _truly_, think he will live, Mycroft?"

"I think it likely he will _live_, for he is an exceptionally strong man, Sherlock," he answered slowly, for he would not lie to his brother. "However…one cannot take that kind of head trauma and remain undamaged in the brain. I think it more likely…that he will be partially or completely invalided the rest of his life, brother mine." He finished with rare gentleness. "What will you do, if that is the case?"

"Besides never forgive myself, you mean?" Holmes whispered bitterly.


	31. Breathe

Mycroft's answer to every deep problem was simple – sleep on it and eat a decent breakfast next morning (possibly with his emphasis being on the meal rather than the slumber). Such a diagnosis was unhelpful to a man who could not sleep peacefully and was too sick to eat, however; and as such the brothers parted ways early the next morning.

Business went on despite tragedy, and the elder Holmes could only hope that the Empire would be able to hold itself together without his complete attention for a little while.

The younger Holmes headed straight for Charing-Cross as soon as the visiting hours began, and after seeing for himself that there had been no change, for better or worse, held a brief consultation with the attending physician and then reluctantly continued to Scotland Yard.

There was an unusual pall over the normally bustling facility; he was keenly aware of the sidelong glances and sympathetic whispers that followed him back to Inspector Lestrade's office. He was grateful that all had the tact, or else none the nerve, to accost him about the matter, and sank into the chair Lestrade hastened to hand him.

"How is he?" the official inquired quietly.

"Still alive," Holmes sighed. "They said the first twenty-four hours are crucial, and it's been half that."

"Thank heaven," Lestrade breathed.


	32. Trapped

Mrs. Hudson met him, fussing and mothering, but it was not the flurrying attention that stole his breath; rather, the modest black bag that sat quietly upon the hall table, waiting for an owner that might never return.

He sank down on the steps, a thousand images flitting through his mind. Would Watson ever be able to use those tools in the profession of mercy he loved? Ever be able to write in those infernal journals, or read one of those horrible novels?

Would he even be able to climb the very steps upon which Holmes sat now? What if the damage, whatever it might be, were so permanent he would need constant care as an invalid? What was he supposed to do, consign his friend to a sanatorium and impersonal nurses for the rest of his existence, and continue taking cases without him?

He had always said he could not live without work, without problems with which to occupy his mind, but the Game meant nothing when it carried a price this high.

Holmes suddenly sickened with the realisation that all these years, he had been so very wrong. He could live without the cases and the clients; they did not matter anymore.

The only thing in the world that truly did, was lying helplessly trapped upon a hospital bed.


	33. Haunt

After being kindly but firmly evicted from The Room when visiting hours expired that next night, he had reluctantly returned to Baker Street – a cold and lonely and far-too-quiet Baker Street.

He knew Mrs. Hudson would understand and forgive the wailing of his violin into the far reaches of the night but did not wish to further pain the woman who had tolerated him for so many years. It was for that reason, at least he attempted to convince himself, that he slunk up to the second-story bedroom rather than his own for his lonely thoughts.

He had no idea the landlady was sitting in her parlour, listening sadly to the outpouring of unutterable pain, until the haunted melody died away. He also was unaware that she climbed two flights to check upon him; Lestrade had been wise enough to warn her about the revolver incident.

He was not aware that she was fully prepared to knock him senseless if he contemplated such a venture; nor of her relieved tears when she found the action unnecessary.

Neither was he aware that she took the Stradivarius from the coverlet and placed it upon the Doctor's desk; nor that before covering his miserably shivering form with a blanket smelling of ship's tobacco, she resolved silently to see that he ate a strengthening breakfast.


	34. Work

They decided to move the Doctor three days later; and only just in time, for a suspicious reporter had overheard a constable discussing the affair with another bobby in a pub and was now attempting to ferret out the story.

Between Lestrade's men and Mycroft's influence, they got out of London before the tabloids found the truth. Mrs. Hudson's instructions were to inform any inquirers that the detective was out of the country on a case, with no expectation of when he would return.

It might as well have been the truth, for when he stepped out of 221B Baker Street that late summer evening of 1903, it was with the full intention that he would not return – at least not alone.

"You know you will go perfectly mad with nothing to do," Mycroft had said kindly. "Perhaps some armchair work is in order. I can have trifling matters sent to you, you know."

At first he had refused, not wishing to apply his mind to anything but remaining sane. But when his brother had pointed out that the Doctor might respond to talk about "cases," he had agreed willingly to the task of occasional government assignments.

He had not yet informed Mycroft that, regardless of Watson's recovery or lack thereof, he was retiring, never to return to the investigative business.


	35. Negotiate

It was a trim estate on the outskirts of Sussex. Watson always had loved the countryside; the man appreciated beauty in all its forms and would adore the place if – _when_ – he awoke. The New Room was spacious and airy, with a large window to let the late September sunshine in, and he had (much to his personal disgust, but the physician had said atmosphere was very important) seen to it that autumn flowers were always present in the room.

He had been most strict in his investigation of the sanatoriums, for money was certainly no object. This place had been chosen for its atmosphere and modern attitudes toward the unexplored realms of medicine.

He had learnt a thing or two about diplomacy from Mycroft, and employed all his skill and charm in working _with_ the doctors and nurses instead of against them. The result: he was allowed near-free rein of the place, for they were open-minded enough to know his presence was the best thing for the patient's recovery.

Still, a week crawled by with broken wings, and then another, and there was still no change. The swelling of the wound was being kept down, and apparently the fracture was healing properly.

And yet, every hour, every day – nothing. For all his pleading and praying, he received only empty blankness.


	36. Plead

He remembered that night especially, for it had been an extremely trying day.

He returned from another fruitless attempt to find a small cottage nearby in which he might invest his dwindling fortune; and evidently the physicians had seen no improvement in response to their stimulus tests for they were unnecessarily brusque.

During the last three weeks, he had formed the habit of spending the evenings sitting beside the unresponsive figure upon the bed and either talking himself hoarse about anything and everything, or reading the country newspapers and an occasional _Times_ aloud.

Tonight, he found he could no longer maintain the façade of cheerfulness that he had been told might be crucial to Watson's recovery. He settled on the edge of the soft mattress and silently took the limp hand once again, wishing with all his heart that he would feel some sort of returning grip.

But nothing. Watson was paler, more worn and frail than he had been even on that awful evening, so many nightmares ago.

He regained his voice at last, and lightly brushed the back of his fingers against the side of the pale face. "Oh, Watson," he whispered to the familiar silence. "Where _are_ you, my dear friend?"

Unfortunately, his vision blurred at that moment, and he completely missed the "unresponsive" patient's momentarily furrowed brow.

.


	37. Shock

He remembered the next day more vividly. Not because he had finally located a cottage near the cliffs – one that had two bedrooms – but because of what transpired when he returned in the crisp evening hours.

He entered with enforced cheerfulness, bearing an armful of books and the scent of the first falling leaves, to find Watson's physician and nurse performing their afternoon examination. He remained cooperatively outside the door until the doctor motioned to him.

"It's all right; we're nearly through," said the doctor amicably. "Taking his pulse and we'll be finished here. You may speak to him; just ignore us."

Holmes nodded, feeling slightly awkward at talking to his friend with others present, but did so for Watson's sake. He summoned a small smile and bade him good-afternoon, as he had for twenty-one days now, before standing by the bed to tell about the cottage he had found.

He broke off abruptly when the nurse exclaimed aloud. The physician's hand froze 'round his friend's wrist and a look of utter shock froze upon his face.

"What is it?" Holmes demanded fearfully.

The man's frozen expression melted into a ridiculously large smile. "His pulse just skyrocketed, Mr. Holmes. He is responding to your voice, I'm sure of it!"

The nurse jumped when the detective dropped all six of his books.


	38. Sink

"He's WHAT?" He was vaguely aware that his voice had risen at least six pitches but was too distracted to wonder upon the anomaly.

"It spiked again when you spoke," the physician replied excitedly, scribbling on the clipboard. "He's never had a fluctuation in pulse before, Mr. Holmes. It's the sound of your voice that's causing the change…Constance, I believe a chair might be in order for Mr. Holmes…"

Stupefied, he sank into its depths, staring at the figure under the coverlet, unable to comprehend that, after so long, there was a change.

"Mr. Holmes," the physician said kindly. "I need you to listen to me for a moment."

He blinked and sat up.

"While I believe he can hear you, it may possibly be that he only recognises your voice – your tone, or your presence. He may not actually comprehend the words you speak. In other words, do not be alarmed if, when he awakes, he does not remember anything you may have said."

Holmes paid little heed, for whatever he had said could always be re-said. His mind had just realised that, for the first time, this physician had said _when_ instead of _if._

Fifteen minutes later, the occupants of Mr. Mycroft Holmes's outer office gawped as the inner sanctum suddenly erupted into an exclamation that shook the building.


	39. Time

It was too early to tell more than that, but even small news was welcome after three weeks of despairing uncertainty. They informed only Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in case of a relapse, though Holmes was finally beginning to believe that his Doctor would indeed awaken. When, no one knew.

But it was a start. By heaven, it was a start!

After discovering certainly Watson could hear him, he promptly ran his voice hoarse that night, causing the attending physician and the nurse no amount of amusement as he violently protested their concoctions of lemon-water for his throat.

Four days passed in that fashion, with no visible change. On the fifth, nearly a month after the injury, the bandaging was removed. Holmes was glad to see the hair was growing back from where they had been forced to shave it to treat the injury; after he had combed it neatly over the scar Watson looked merely peacefully asleep, if a bit pale and wan.

He had sent for most of their things to be moved from Baker Street into the cottage on the Downs, and was setting in motion the funds necessary to see that Mrs. Hudson could remain in her home as long as she desired.

It was the least he could do, after years of caring for them both.


	40. Promise

While no less than thrilled over the small improvement in the Doctor's condition, elder brother was less than ecstatic, however, to find that the younger was retiring from practice without question or discussion.

"Don't you think that is a bit extreme, Sherlock?" His voice over the small telephone was scratchily skeptical.

"No," Holmes answered calmly, for his mind was long since settled.

"Sherlock, you cannot just retire because of one case gone wrong; you know that the Doctor will never blame you for it –"

"That is only part of it, Mycroft."

"And what, pray tell, is the rest?"

"We both know, brother, that in all probability he will not awake and be fully functional, and I would never condemn him to a life here forever," he muttered, though his heart constricted even as the words fell.

"You are not seriously thinking of –"

"More than once in my career I worked disguised as a gentleman's manservant," he replied calmly. "I am more than willing to legitimately be one in a much nobler cause."

Blank startled silence clouded the country telephone line. Then, "You cannot be serious, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what kind of a commitment you would be making?"

"There is no hypothetical situation, Mycroft. I have _made_ it," he replied quietly, and left his brother slightly bewildered.


	41. Fall

Another week passed with little change; on a couple occasions the physician entered to find Watson's hand in a different position than it had been, and once he flinched in response to a painful stimulus test. Other than that, nothing.

Holmes chafed at the uncertainty, and attempted to engage his self-destructing mind in finishing the London formalities. They issued a statement to the press that he had retired to an undisclosed location, and that Watson had remarried and was on the Continent for a month-long honeymoon. That would gain them some time before the papers grew suspicious and came after the truth (not that Mycroft would have allowed them anywhere close, but all the same caution was necessary).

Finally there was nothing left to do but sit and wait and pray, and that was what he did. To all appearances, Watson had physically healed; he looked thin and wasted from medical treatment but no longer injured. Holmes had never felt so helpless in his life. Hour after hour he sat beside the bed, talking and pleading, and to no avail.

The autumn winds grew bolder, and the leaves began to shiver. One chilly night in his cottage, he hoped sadly that, wherever Watson's mind was trapped, it was not cold and lonely as he had been for a month and beyond.


	42. Shiver

The strain of carrying on a one-sided conversation for almost six weeks running was beginning to toll upon him; he was aware of the whispers as he stalked the by-now familiar halls.

None of that mattered; and besides, he was past caring.

He shivered and sat on the bed's edge as the wind wailed like a lonely dog. Depressedly reading various news articles aloud and clutching a steaming cup of Darjeeling, he longed for what had been, until a month-and-a-half ago, a perfectly content world. How could a man's life change so dramatically in one horribly miscalculated instant?

If this were one of Watson's romantic stories, he should have been able to bring his friend back by the power of his voice alone.

_That_ had certainly not happened.

"Hum," he mused absently, sniggering over a police-case. "I _told_ Lestrade that robbery would become a kidnapping if he did not place a guard 'round the girl." He snapped the paper back into folds and tossed it over his shoulder with a sigh, glancing dejectedly toward the pillow. "But you know he never lis…"

He did not hear the teacup shatter on the floor, nor feel the scalding liquid drench his shoes.

Because this time, when he looked for the thousandth time at the injured man's face, two hazel eyes blinked curiously back.


	43. Memory

He had fantasized about this moment – even dreamed about it though he would never admit it to a soul – but had anticipated neither this silent, quizzical look nor the paralysis of his muscles and thought processes. It was blank, all blank; his precious logic had deserted him and left him slack-jawed and staring.

When Watson blinked again, his brows drawing together slightly, it snapped him out of the shock and he inhaled slowly, almost afraid to breathe loudly and break whatever miraculous spell had fallen upon the room.

The eyes moved past his head to glide slowly over the room, the glowing fireplace, the spotless walls, and then back, finally settling upon his face in a slightly bewildered uncertainty.

It suddenly occurred to him that the damage might be enough that Watson might not recognise him. And though he desperately hoped his conjecture might be wrong, the overwhelmed gaze had not left his face nor shown any signs of recognition.

But now was not the time for speculation. He coughed his voice from its somewhat choked position in his throat and smiled reassuringly, blinking as the fireplace must have sent a puff of errant coal smoke in his direction.

"Watson?" he asked as he leaned closer, but his voice apparently was not as steady as he had assumed it would be.


	44. Loss

Unfortunately, before he could receive any answer the door opened and the attending physician, alerted by the breaking china, barreled in; only to stand agape for a moment before relegating him to a corner.

Holmes understood the necessity of the tests they began, but was forced after ten minutes to clench his fists in his pockets, for his friend was obviously growing distressed by the flurry of attention, his eyes flitting uneasily about as if searching for some escape and unable to find it in silent agitation.

The physician had the sense to know when the tests began to be more harmful than medically informative and promptly stopped them.

"It appears he is indeed conscious, and responding to stimuli," he said quietly, "but we cannot tell yet how bad the damage is and how quickly it will heal. At the moment it looks likely that he is either unable to speak, or simply unable to form words. In my experience this usually goes hand-in-hand with not being able to understand complicated phrases, so when you speak keep it simple, Mr. Holmes."

"And his memory?" he whispered.

"Some memory loss is inevitable with any serious head trauma," the physician replied kindly. "In his case, we will not be able to determine its extent until he can communicate."

"And when will that be?"


	45. Trust

"Do not look so frightened, Mr. Holmes," the man reassured. "Speech can be relearned; be grateful it is his speech and not his sight that has been impaired. We will continue the tests tomorrow when he has rested; then I will be able to give you a full report as to his mobility. To be honest, Mr. Holmes, it would help us greatly if you could get him to quiet and rest."

"Right…" He swallowed, wondering how he was supposed to calm him down if Watson could not recognise him.

The physician nodded reassuringly, cast a concerned glance toward the wide-eyed patient, and then left, softly shutting the door behind him. Holmes hesitantly edged toward the bed, watching for a response.

He received a wary look in return as he cautiously sat beside the bed instead of on it. He was pleased that his friend's head moved to follow his motion, his eyes more curious than fearful.

"Watson?" he asked hesitantly. "Can…can you understand me, my dear fellow?" He received a puzzled frown. "Watson? Come on, dear fellow, can't you show me some sign you can hear me?" he cajoled gently.

He was startled beyond his wildest hopes when, even before he had finished speaking, a sudden glow of recognition flooded the entire room.

He had never seen anything so breathtaking.


	46. Limp

"You _do_ recognise me – by my voice, then?" he breathed, and wondered absently how the night could go from being darkly depressive to the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Watson's lips parted, automatically began to form part of his name, only to be caught short with a suddenly frightened look, latching helplessly onto Holmes's face.

He had found he couldn't speak, and was no doubt absolutely terrified and confused. Holmes of course realised the fact and immediately reached out to stay the rising panic.

"It's all right, old chap, don't try to talk yet," he murmured soothingly, striving to keep his voice as familiar in tone and inflection as possible. He received a quizzical frown, though the lurking fear in his friend's eyes – how happy he was to see them! – remained. "I want you to focus on my voice, Watson. Can you do that for me?"

Startled, he laughed – for the first time in almost two months – when those eyes rolled in exasperation toward the ceiling. "All right, all right," he gasped, dashing a sleeve across his damp lashes. "So…you can understand me perfectly well, then?"

Watson's eyes twinkled in silent agreement.

"Oh, thank God," Holmes whispered, dropping his limp head upon the bed and for the first time realizing that, regardless of the damage, his biographer was _not_ brain-dead.


	47. Exhaustion

Somehow, all at once the energy that had kept him going for over a week of little to no sleep each night, meals only when the idea occurred to him, and countless hours of churning up every possible scenario for this situation, suddenly melted from his grasp like candy-floss in the rain, leaving him more limp than any case had ever done.

It was Watson's faint whimper of helpless concern when he did not sit back up that jolted him out of his daze, causing him to snap back into a reassuring manner. Now was not the time to dwell on what might have been.

"I'm fine, old fellow," he said shakily, moving to a seat on the bed instead of beside it. "Now…let us take this slowly, shall we?" He remembered the physician's injunctions and concentrated on very methodical and slow speaking – a considerable change for him to make, but one he of course gave not a second thought to.

"You can understand me, then," he began uncertainly. "Can you…nod your head for yes, and shake it for no?"

He realised belatedly that it was not possible to answer that question with one or the other, but was thoroughly pleased to see that Watson understood him as always and promptly demonstrated each in quick succession.

"Good, good!" he gasped, beaming.


	48. Shame

"Now then…did you recognise my face, or just my voice?" He received a scowl, and hastily rephrased. "My face?"

Watson shook his head, a faint flush staining his pale cheeks in obvious shame, and Holmes patted his arm. "It's all right, old man, truly. Do you remember…what happened last you were awake?"

Watson looked back at him in utter blankness.

"Nothing?"

Watson nodded, helplessly begging him to be more specific. "Oh…then, do you remember the house we were hiding in…Mycroft's case?"

An eager nod.

"You remember going outside afterwards?"

Another nod, slower.

Holmes inhaled concentratedly. "They had a man waiting, Watson…he got off a lucky shot when I bent forward…" He swallowed and lifted Watson's limp hand to feel the scar at his temple. "You have been in a coma for almost six weeks."

Watson's eyes widened in comprehension and shock. Holmes quietly curled his fingers around the limp hand as he replaced it on the coverlet. "I know you are confused right now, old fellow, but you must rest," he whispered.

Indeed, Watson's eyelids had already begun to flutter, exhausted with information-absorbing. Finally he yawned and they slid closed, the pained lines in his forehead relaxing.

The physician, who had been watching unseen, smiled. The patient's odd friend seemed to be more beneficial than any medical tests could possibly be.


	49. Effort

Late that night, the physician was amused but not surprised to find that Sherlock Holmes had not gone home.

He was astonished to discover his patient at least had mobility of his hands and arms – for when he entered to check Watson's vital signs, he found a snoring detective draped over the side of the bed, head upon his folded arms, and the Doctor's hand had somehow ended up on Holmes's shoulder.

--

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes was not amused about being awoken a full three-and-one-half minutes before his usual rising time by his telephone.

He was startled to find that his unruffled younger brother was actually _babbling_ uncontrollably; it took a good four minutes to calm him into coherency.

That was the first morning in the history of his career that he was late to his office.

--

Later that morning, Inspector Lestrade was alternating between growling at his underlings and filling out paperwork that only grew impossibly, when his telephone rang.

Ten minutes later, after a high-pitched yelp emerged under the closed door, only one young sergeant was brave enough to peek into the office to ascertain if the Inspector had gone suddenly mad.

--

After luncheon, Lestrade popped over to tell Mrs. Hudson the news, and discovered how hard it really was to comfort a woman having a hysterical breakdown.


	50. Suffer

"Oh, just shut up, _do_," Mycroft Holmes drawled, waving off the flurry of staff that had been thrown into near cardiac arrest when he did not arrive at his usual time, for the first morning in forty-five years.

His aberrance from punctuality duly horrified his superiors. The fact that the man was actually..._whistling_, as he entered, terrified them.

But it was when he bestowed upon his first appointment for the day an actual – and quite benevolent – _smile_, they knew the Empire was indeed coming to an end.

--

Lestrade had expected a feminine explosion of emotions. What he had not expected, was to first comfort hysteria and then, just as quickly, be hauled into the kitchen and asked to hold a large mixing bowl.

"What the _devil_ are you doing, Mrs. Hudson?" he demanded, unobtrusively glancing at the door and wondering if the beat constable would hear if he yelled for the white-coats.

"Really, Inspector," sniffed she. "The poor man has had a feeding tube for the last six weeks, and Lord knows what sort of food they have now. Aren't you going down to see him? You can take him something nice."

"I…well," he gulped, suddenly wondering. "I would like to, but Mr. Holmes might not – "

"I shall deal with Mr. Holmes;" the woman retorted, "heaven knows I have before."


	51. Cripple

Joyous as the night had been, the morning brought with it the bleakness of reality, as the better part of three hours was spent in extensive tests to ascertain just how much damage had been done.

Holmes was nearly as agitated as the patient when they were finally finished and the nurse administered a calming draught to relax Watson enough to let him sleep.

"You need to know the facts, so that you may deal with them _properly_ in future," the physician said pointedly after he had nearly exploded from frustration.

Duly chastened, he nodded.

"Speech can be re-taught but it will be like teaching an infant to do so," he sighed. "During that time, you _must_ rein in your impatience. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be trapped without the power of speech."

"I understand," he whispered.

"His mind appears to be fully sound; in essence, the mind of an adult, but the physical functionality of a child."

"You mean…"

"I mean he will have to re-learn to do nearly everything," the physician said gently. "He has the _capability_ to move – not like a spinal injury, with neural damage – his mind just cannot remember _how_."

He was afraid to ask for further particulars, but the physician continued ruthlessly though his tone was gentle as the autumn breeze.


	52. Swim

He went for a long, long walk along the beach that afternoon while Watson slept. The physician's words rang in his head like a death-knell. How could he have thought that this would be so easy, that all would be right if Watson would only awaken?

_"There may be less damage than we think now; once he regains his strength he may find that his mind returns somewhat – by no means should we assume we are starting at the beginning in all areas. But remember, we still have no idea how much damage was done to his memory. We should be far more concerned with that, rather than what can be re-learned."_

He was having a hard enough time accepting the fact that Watson had not recognised his face – what else did he not know? Did he remember anything about their past lives? Baker Street? His wife? Their acquaintances? The Afghan War?

Just because he could remember the events immediately preceding the shooting did not mean he would recall anything else. He was not certain which was worse, the physical damage or the possible mental incapacitation. Either way, it was still _his fault_, and if Watson did not remember that fact then he would need to tell him.

He viciously sent a pebble plummeting off the cliffs into the ocean below.


	53. Sick

Another stone followed the first, and he took pleasure in seeing it drown beneath the choppy waves.

_"I must caution you, Mr. Holmes. It has been my experience that many people cannot bear to see their loved ones so incapacitated, trying desperately to re-learn even the most basic functions of everyday life. No one will think less of you should you decide to remain away for the first stages of his recovery; it would be better to stay away than to remain and cause more problems than we are dealing with presently. _

_I would ask you to consider carefully – are you capable of standing what will come in the following weeks?"_

This time it was a pile of russet-hued leaves that showered into a watery grave.

_Was_ he capable of bearing that burden? And more importantly, would he be of any help, or would he just cause Watson more pain and embarrassment because of his impatience and utter inability to say or do the right thing when logic had fled the scene?

And, his brutally frank mind insisted upon bringing the matter up – and, once Watson discovered his condition was because of a deadly mistake on Holmes's part…would he even _want_ him to remain?

He covered his face with one shaking hand as the sun turned the ocean into liquid bronze.


	54. Clench

The sun was setting, inviting the darkness in, by the time his dropping body temperature's signal finally reached his occupied mind. He shivered and made his way back for a final nightly conversation – possibly the last for many weeks.

Watson was awake, propped up upon several pillows against the headboard, his hands folded neatly on the coverlet as a nurse finished taking his respiration and then left with a warning glare which Holmes knew he fully deserved.

"Good-evening, old fellow," he said softly, taking his accustomed seat beside the bed. "Did you sleep well?"

He received a (all things considered) cheerful nod, and a now-familiar twitch of moustache – Watson had not yet learnt to smile again, but it was obvious he was trying. Holmes clung to the small victory each time it happened, hoping that someday the real expression would manifest itself and bring the light back into his shadowed world.

A few minutes of uneasy silence – such a silence! – fell over the room. He picked nervously at a small leaf that had clung to his coat, shredding it accidentally and then clenching his fingers to prevent another nervous twitch.

Finally, acutely aware of a pair of worried eyes, he sighed. "Has your physician told you the results of this morning's tests?" His voice was carefully controlled, his expression painfully blank.


	55. Touch

An answering nod, and his heart tightened painfully.

"I am so sorry, dear fellow," he whispered. "But…I have more unpleasant news."

Watson's eyes – he could no longer meet them - had begun to fill with mute uncertainty. One of them had to be strong, he knew that; but it was beyond his power at the moment.

"You may not remember this, Doctor, but…the night you…you were injured, you remember I said I had checked the grounds for dogs and the like." He closed his eyes, the scene replaying in his vivid imagination in horrible replica. "I did, but…not well enough; I neglected to check across the street for a possible lookout." He dared not glance up, fumbling his way through the remaining admittance. "I failed to notice the sniper, and therefore I am to blame for…for your condition right now…"

He only vaguely realised his voice was rising, rambling in a jumbled mess of apologies and recrimination. "Watson, I – I am so very, very sorry," he murmured at last in despair, his hand fisting in the blanket. "I will not be offended if you wish me to leave and not return – _ow_!"

This last was in response to a gentle smack upside the head in lieu of being able to verbally set the record straight on who exactly was to blame.


	56. Embrace

Two furious eyes were not what engaged his dumbfounded attention.

"Watson," he gasped. "How…did you even _do_ that, if that diagnosis is correct?"

Well-founded anger suddenly froze into blinking startlement.

"You moved your hand, without thinking about it," Holmes breathed, barely daring to hope.

Watson's eyes widened suddenly, but then tensed as he tried again to perform the same motion, meeting with miserable failure. Holmes's lips tightened as a whimper of helpless disappointment broke the silence; Watson turned his head away, his eyes filling with frustrated tears that begged Holmes to leave his pride suffering in solitude.

And for the first time Holmes realised Watson was as frightened as he – more so. The physician had likely told him how Holmes was struggling with the situation, and naturally he was terrified Holmes was really going to leave him.

Watson could not even mask his distress, and certainly was unable to object when Holmes finally obeyed his instincts and hesitantly embraced his shaking friend. And when he suddenly felt a very clumsy returning grip, he made his decision.

"I'll not abandon you, Watson – that I swear," he finally managed. "Whatever happens, we'll see it out together. I promise."

Even had it been possible, no answer was necessary; just feeling Watson go suddenly limp with relief against him eliminated any doubts he still bore.


	57. Lift

"So you can move, just not consciously," he mused aloud. "That means if there is no neural damage, theoretically the more you practice certain actions the quicker your mind will remember how to, in general?"

Watson shrugged.

"We'll use it as a working hypothesis. And we'll see how wrong we can prove that physician, eh?"

An eyebrow arched.

"Yes, I am aware I am not a qualified specialist, but even I can help you practice – or would you rather I leave you to that attractive blonde nurse? Ah, you remember how to blush, that's good. Now then…what is the most important at the moment…"

The deafening silence was answer enough.

Holmes frowned sadly. "I am afraid I am not qualified to help with that, old chap; you shall have to wait for the therapist…wait! But I can teach you to write again, you think?"

Watson's eyes shone, and that was all the incentive he needed to scramble round for a blank writing-pad.

When the physician visited, he was rather amused to see the floor littered with pencil scribblings. Mr. Holmes sat upon the bed, his hand closed over his friend's to guide it, his face determined but patient.

Rarely had the doctor seen such infinite attachment – and if Holmes could keep that, then the possibilities for the patient's recovery were boundless.


	58. Battle

The next few days were extremely rough, no one could deny. Holmes sent for a speech therapist from London, under the direction of the physician, and concentrated his time on spending hour after hour with his friend in the most basic of exercises; even learning to eat and drink again was a near insurmountable obstacle at first.

The physician had warned that frustration would be a significant issue they both would have to deal with, but despite that neither of them had fully prepared to take the strain and the sixth day ended abruptly with a joint temper loss. Holmes stormed back to his cottage and spent the evening pacing before the fire and refraining from putting his fist through a wall in his anger at unjust Fate.

Watson, unable to take his frustration out physically (though he had mastered a few basic movements he was unable to vent his anger to his satisfaction; that was sufficient to drive a man mad), spent the four hours thinking deeply.

Then his lips tightened determinedly, and when the physician entered warily a few minutes later he began, in awkward signs and a few scattered scribbled words, to indicate what he wanted. Though first doubtful, the physician wisely decided that the man knew what he was doing and promised to give it his best.


	59. Crack

He did return the next morning to give it another gallant try. As he was not eager to discuss the blowup, and Watson not able to, the matter dropped in mutual understanding and they set out together to continue.

A week passed in this manner. After a fortnight they were exhaustedly relieved to find that the process of re-learning to live was becoming fractionally easier as the time passed.

Mycroft had telephoned occasionally for updates, but Holmes had instructed him to tell Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade that he wanted no visitors until Watson was able to communicate with them; it would only bring embarrassment to all parties.

On the fifteenth day, it occurred to Holmes that he had not informed Watson that he had retired from London permanently, and unfortunately the news triggered the second long and relatively one-sided argument of the last fortnight. Watson was furious with his reasons, not with him personally, but that made no difference to his thinning nerves.

He said things that should not have been said, and nearly did not return that night out of pure shame.

What remained of his frayed control shattered when he was greeted, not with an angry look, but with a very careful, very controlled, very _spoken_ "Ev'ning, Holmes" and a slight, proud smirk just before his nerve finally broke.


	60. Stop

The palling silence of the room was obliterated with the force of a cannon blast in the two simple words. It had been over two months since he had heard that voice, and he had no idea hearing it again would be so…heart-wrenching, he supposed was the word, since there seemed to be a tight band of iron clenching his chest and constricting his breathing.

He vaguely realised he was sliding down the wall, his legs suddenly turning unreliable and shaky beneath his already off balance, and that the pleased pride that had filled Watson's eyes had performed a magically quick change to concern.

"How…" He gasped, and started at the sound of his own high-pitched voice. "How…you didn't tell me you were working that hard already on…h-how in the world did you…"

He regained his balance as the shock of the thing began to fade minimally, and received another of those almost-but-not-quite smiles. "Prac-tice," Watson enunciated succinctly, and rather carefully.

He choked on a laugh at the logical answer and found to his shock that he was dangerously close to, for the first time in his entire life, weeping out of sheer happiness.

And, more surprisingly, the fact that he was about ten seconds from losing his composure completely did not bother him as it would have in years before.


	61. Faint

Evidently another thing Watson had been carefully keeping from him was that he could move his hand intentionally now to rest upon Holmes's shaking shoulders, as he put his head down on his arms atop the blanket and allowed the tension, frustration, and self-doubt to drain away in an outpouring that would have properly horrified him in bygone years.

Watson's grip was clumsy, awkward – not even remotely similar to the touch of a practiced surgeon – but it was comforting, and he silently shook under it for an interminable five minutes before reason reasserted itself.

"My apologies," he muttered into his sleeve, highly embarrassed at how thick his voice now sounded.

He received another gentle cuff to the back of his head that made him come closer to _giggling_ than any British gentleman ever should, and then hesitantly sat up, rubbing his face briskly with an unsteady hand.

Watson's eyes were twinkling in good-humour, the argument of earlier dismissed in his pride at being able to at least string a few syllables together. Holmes smiled back; for evidently whatever he had forgotten from the past, his eternal forgiveness was not part of it.

Which, however, brought up the sobering thought: now that he was slowly communicating, they would need to ascertain just exactly how intact – or how shattered – his memory had been.


	62. Pride I

Exhausted but well-deservedly proud of himself, Watson drifted peacefully off to sleep soon after. Holmes remained, watching and wondering, until the physician visited at midnight.

"No, we have not questioned him," the man replied in answer to his query. "But…I would not borrow trouble, Mr. Holmes. If he can remember you, and that you used to live in London and are now retired (enough to be angry about the fact), then I would say chances are much better that he will have most of his memory."

Holmes exhaled slowly.

"From the little I have been able to study, it seems that perhaps only his visual memory is affected; once he re-learns something he apparently remembers it with no difficulty. That is not common in this kind of injury; often the patient's family must re-introduce themselves every time the patient sees them, due to short-term memory loss. Be grateful that that has not happened to you," he ended with a stern admonishment. "And above all, _be patient_. If we push him too quickly heaven knows what damage we could cause. I was not thrilled about his determination to triple the amount of time he is having speech therapy for that very reason, but he was most insistent upon surprising you."

Holmes smiled sadly, glancing back at the peaceful figure on the bed.


	63. Pride II

He took the physician's words to heart and kept a firm grip upon his impatience until Watson could communicate in three or four-word sentences.

Then finally, one lovely autumn morning some six or seven days later, he entered the room to find that the nurse had helped Watson out of the bed which had kept him prisoner for so long (he had been attempting to walk, but could barely keep his balance yet – another item he was fully intending to surprise Holmes with someday in future).

Watson was seated in a bath-chair in front of the window, through which a gold-leaf-scattered morning was peeping, and looked up as he entered. Holmes started in momentary surprise, but then smiled and joined him, curling up like a cat in a sunbeam-bathed armchair.

"Morning, Holmes," Watson pronounced carefully. "Beau-ti-ful, isn't it?"

"It is indeed. If you feel up to it, dear fellow, I should be glad to take you outside later…on the verandah or something," Holmes spoke hesitantly, afraid of offending his pride by offering to push the chair.

He was relieved when Watson's eyes lit up. "Please!"

Holmes smiled distractedly. "After luncheon, then."

He sat for a moment, trying to think of a pleasant way to go into a series of tests to ascertain how much of his friend's memory had been breached.


	64. Remember

He realised Watson was watching him in curious concern.

"Some-thing is…" Watson halted, frowning as his mind refused to conjure the word.

"…Bothering me?" he finished ruefully, and saw an answering nod. "Yes, my dear fellow. It's been almost three months, and…we still have not ascertained how much your memory has been affected."

Watson's eyes went softly sad. "Was ho-ping…you wouldn't 'mem-ber to ask," he finally murmured, looking down at the afghan covering his legs.

"I am sorry, dear fellow, but we must know," he said gently. "But if you like we can wait; let you sort your thoughts."

"Don't think…they will get any more…sor-ted," Watson sighed. "It's like…" He paused, closed his eyes. "There are…pieces…holes..."

"Gaps," Holmes rephrased as Watson motioned helplessly.

Watson nodded. "Can't see things…"

"But you do remember your past?" Holmes breathed hopefully. "Afghanistan…Baker Street?"

"Yes," Watson replied, nodding emphatically. "But…not cer-tain I would…" he frowned again, obviously thinking.

"Recognise?"

"Right. If I saw them," he finished, and rubbed his head in exhaustion.

"Headache, old fellow?"

"Ra-ther," he admitted.

Though concerned, Holmes was still overjoyed. "Tell you what, Watson," he said, smiling. "Shall I take you outside and then bring breakfast out?"

"The nurse…will have a fit…"

"Let her."

He was taken completely off-guard by the sudden full smile that filled the room with a warm brilliance.


	65. Absence

The nurse _did_ have a fit.

He made certain Watson was wearing his thickest dressing-gown (he had brought a few things from the cottage), and slung two afghans over his arm as they went out. He did not push the chair too quickly or bump it against anything.

He asked nicely for breakfast – anyway, he was paying enough he should get what he wanted, policy be hanged – and thanked the lad who brought it. They sat in pleasant silence over coffee, watching the crisp autumn breeze swirl the orange leaves away.

Then the nurse shrieked loudly enough to wake anyone in the hamlet who was not already. Spluttering, he attempted to fend her off, but found himself no match for seven-and-a-half-stone of angry young woman. In attempting to escape, he had been backed red-faced and cringing into a corner of the verandah.

The woman's finger was inches from his face when her ranting was suddenly interrupted by a sound. Both of them froze, listening. Warm and full and _alive_ as summer sunshine, and just as warming after nearly three months of its absence, it was the most beautiful thing Holmes had ever heard – and he a music connoisseur.

For the first time since the accident, Watson was _laughing_.

He had not thought it possible to have missed anything quite so badly.


	66. Appearances

Lestrade came down to visit a few days later, armed with a letter from Mycroft Holmes and a coffee-ring from Mrs. Hudson. Holmes had briefed him on what to expect, but he was too glad that the Doctor was alive and recovering to worry about having the conversation be slowly one-sided.

He was shown out to a garden where the sun, unusually warm for November, was bathing the grounds in golden light. Two men sat in the small clearing among the brightly-coloured leaves; well, one sat upon a blanket beside an empty wheeled chair and another was scrambling around in the leaves for something; heaven only knew what.

Watson looked up, smiling warmly, as his short shadow stretched across the blanket. "Hullo, Inspec-tor." Other than a marked deliberateness of speech, he appeared normal enough, for which Lestrade was suddenly grateful.

"Afternoon, Doctor," he returned the greeting, making certain he was speaking clearly. He was, then, uneasy when a sudden look of confusion passed across the Doctor's face, and Holmes stopped his scavenging to glance up in surprise.

"You recognised him?" the detective asked incredulously, and Lestrade belatedly remembered Holmes telling him about the visual memory loss.

"I…I can't remem-ber now," Watson whispered, rubbing his head uneasily.

Lestrade swallowed hard, seeing that all was not normal as he had at first believed.


	67. Recognition

"Don't try to remember, Watson," Holmes said hastily, scrambling back beside his friend. "You'll only make the headache worse, old fellow – be glad your instincts remembered even if you cannot at the moment."

Lestrade imagined for a fleeting instant that the detective looked slightly miffed, but had no idea why. "I apologise if I've distressed you, Doctor…"

"No, no," Watson sighed, massaging his temple absently. "I am…glad to see you." He smiled again, smaller this time but still a smile. "Do…sit down."

"I suppose it would be rather stupid to ask how you're feeling, Doctor," he offered ruefully, seating himself close enough Watson would not have to lean forward to look at him.

"Better…ev'ry day." That smile again – and if he could judge Holmes's reactions aright, the man could not see enough of it. "I am…slow-ly lear-ning things. Holmes is a…" he frowned suddenly, obviously drawing a blank.

"Don't _even_," Holmes warned the Inspector dryly, and Lestrade choked a laugh, relaxing immediately at the sight of a more stable man than he had last seen. "The phrase you're searching for is _genius amongst men_, Watson."

"Ar-ro-gant prat, more like," the Doctor retorted in a rare flash of his old quickness.

The complete happiness shimmering in Holmes's eyes told more than his laughter how little offense he had taken at the barb.


	68. Security

Lestrade saw how Watson did not move much; Holmes had said he was re-learning everything, and obviously it had been a hard field to plough. He did interject a few comments, and once waved his hand to shoo an adventurous honeybee; just taking it slowly, then. Which was perfectly fine, since the two of them had all the time in the world now.

A while later the conversation dwindled. They glanced over and saw the Doctor fairly drooping with evident exhaustion, massaging his head with a silent whimper.

Lestrade frowned, about to leave, but a weak wave paused him. "Don't," Watson murmured, looking helplessly at Holmes.

"It's all right, Inspector," the latter interpreted. "He just needs to rest for a bit; no need for you to leave before dinner. Want me to take you back inside, old chap?"

Watson shook his head definitively, obviously enjoying the sun.

"All right," Holmes replied gently. "Then just lie down for a while, my dear fellow. Here, let me help you …there…that's it."

"Sorry," Watson whispered before his eyes fluttered closed.

Lestrade was unsure if the apology was directed to him, for leaving the conversation, or to Holmes for his head invading the detective's lap despite the fact that Holmes seemed to have settled him in that position intentionally.

Probably a bit of both.


	69. Peace

After Watson was safely asleep, Lestrade inquired, "How is he, exactly?"

"Improving by the day," he answered. "Though it was rough at first, and still is at times. He would be mortified to know I am aware that there are some mornings where he does not recognise me until I speak to him. Still, he is alive, and that is all that matters to me, Inspector."

"You yourself are looking better, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade observed. "If you don't mind my saying so, I'm not sure I've ever seen you so…_peaceful_, before."

"I have other goals now, and time aplenty to reach them." His eyes drifted down as Watson murmured in his sleep. "I have discovered anew that life is a gift, Inspector, and I fully intend to treasure every moment I have of it."

Lestrade nodded at the simplistic peace in the former investigator's expression. "I'm retiring myself soon, y'know," he remarked after a pause. "It's time for another generation to take all that grunt work. I'm finished with papers and chases and street-fights, thank you very much."

Holmes laughed, quietly as to not awaken Watson. "Indeed."

The two men shared a smile over Watson's head, and silence fell upon the sun-bathed clearing.

That is, until Lestrade went to shift positions and smacked his hand straight down upon an enraged bumblebee.


	70. Lose

The angry insect managed to sting the poor Inspector three times before Holmes squashed it, after Watson had abruptly woken and rolled over upon the blanket onto his stomach and elbows in startled confusion. The peaceful evening was no more, as the official loosed a string of expletives he had to have learned in the London dockyards. The hand was already swelling by the time he paused for breath, cradling the injured appendage.

"You had better head up and get a doctor to put some ointment on that," Holmes offered helpfully.

He did not see a slow look of dejected realisation seep into Watson's countenance as the words left his lips, nor saw him look at his own still-crippled hands in painful grief; for he was helping Lestrade to his feet and directing him down the path toward the sanatorium, promising that they would be along momentarily.

But when he turned and saw that Watson had silently laid his head upon his arms and that his shoulders were shaking, he could have kicked himself for his unthinking statement about getting a _doctor's_ help, innocent though it had been.

He could not imagine the pain at realising one was probably unable to perform one's profession ever again.

How could anything he might say or do make that kind of agony more bearable?


	71. Purpose

He hesitated for a moment, utterly lost, and then followed his instincts and settled quietly upon the blanket beside his quivering friend; also on one elbow so as to not tower over him. A moment's pause, and then he timidly laid a hand upon Watson's shaking shoulder, holding it there until the tremouring slowed and finally died.

Finally Watson looked up. "I…hate this," he choked. "Never…felt so use-less…ever. I – I can't do _a-ny-thing _or…" he paused to breathe in a shudder, "or…help a-ny-one. Why…am I even still…alive, if…I…can't –" The effort of stringing the sentences together was too much, and he subsided into a small moan of pained distress, resting his head against his arm.

Holmes felt a chill, completely unrelated to the November wind, and swallowed hard before speaking. "And just how many people do you need to be able to minister to, before you stop feeling this way?" he asked softly.

Watson raised a confused eyebrow, and Holmes inhaled slowly. "If you can save one life, don't you think that is reason enough to live?" he pressed.

A scoffing look. "Can't…even…do that," he whispered.

Holmes swallowed. "You already have, Watson."

"What?"

"I've not yet told you what I did the night you were shot, Watson," he whispered, clenching his jaw until he felt pain shooting through his very bones.


	72. Beacon

"I…don't remember much about it," he began. "I found the man who shot you…and hauled him back to Baker Street."

He looked down as Watson's hand covered his, and forced his voice to function.

"Had you died…I would have killed him," he muttered roughly. "Only my brother realised the fact and sent Lestrade in before I could."

Watson's eyes were wide, and growing wider.

"That is not all," he whispered in shame. "Lestrade…he realised, and with good reason, that I could not be left alone with a loaded weapon. I did not think you were going to live the night, Watson," he added in bitter defense, as Watson looked horrified. "And that I was responsible for your death was a fact I simply could not live with." He swallowed with difficulty. "Every day that passes with you recovering, Watson…" he trailed off hoarsely. "…There are more ways to save a life than medical procedures."

Clumsy fingers tightened round his hand as it began to tremble, growing ice-cold, and he clung as if holding to his very sanity.

Silence for endless minutes. Then…

"I…could hear you," Watson whispered. "Ev'ry…word you said. It was dark…lonely…I was…" he frowned, searching for the word, "…scared, un-til I could…hear you." Their eyes met, mutually understanding. "If you had-n't been there…I might never…have found my way back."


	73. Confession

The implications staggered him, and he closed his eyes, horrified at the thought that, had Lestrade not shown an amount of (atypical) common sense, neither of them might be there now.

"I think we owe the man a thanks," he said finally, opening his eyes and managing a smile.

Twenty minutes later, they were settled with a rather grumpy Lestrade, taking dinner before the Inspector's return to London. The official watched interestedly over the course of the meal, but apparently the Doctor could manage the silver well enough; save for the fact that he was rather slow, one would never know each movement was taking immense concentration.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Lestrade remarked suddenly over the coffee. "Here, Mr. Holmes, Doctor." He pulled a rolled-up magazine from his coat-pocket and tossed it across the table. "Mrs. Hudson's having all your post forwarded, but I thought I'd bring this down myself."

Watson's eyes widened in surprise, and he looked blankly at a squirming Holmes.

"Yes, I know I said I didn't want any more of those stories to be made public," he muttered uncomfortably, wishing the Inspector were not listening gleefully to his admittance. "But…you wrote them years ago, and…"

He gulped nervously, glaring at Lestrade's wide grin. "And…and I did not want the world to forget you," he confessed somewhat bashfully.


	74. Empty

After Lestrade had smiled and returned to London, they sat before a cozy fire in Watson's room, he reading Mycroft's letter and _The Empty House_ aloud and Watson curled up with an afghan and a contented smile.

When he glanced up and saw that he had read his friend to peaceful sleep, he also took his leave, silently pulling the coverlet up over Watson's shoulders and watching for a moment to see that the slumber would be restful.

He repaired from the familiar warmth of the room to the chill of the autumn out-of-doors and the long walk to his cottage, which was scarcely warmer than the November night and had yet to feel like home to him. Too tired and dejected to more than poke at the dwindling fire, he curled up in an armchair and looked sadly across at the still-empty chair parallel to his.

The physician at the sanatorium had been most insistent that Watson could not leave until they were satisfied he was mostly self-sufficient in the basic processes of everyday living; the doctor had seen enough relationships fall apart under such intense strain and wisely prohibited it in this case.

Holmes realised the intelligence of the judgment and agreed, but that did not make these dark nights any less lonely, or his cottage any less bare.


	75. Reassurance

Whether it was his dark thoughts or the autumnal winds buffeting the house, he did not know – only that he woke abruptly in the midnight hours to a dead fire, the residual visions of a nightmare flickering blackly and the bitter taste of cold fear coating his throat.

He fumbled for a few frightening moments until he found the gas and lit it, but even its comforting glow was incapable of driving back the demons of his imagination. Every shadow, previously an inscrutable void, now turned into a hidden assassin, one that he had missed, and a dying ember in the fire's sudden popping became the report of a fatal gunshot, changing his world forever.

He was shivering so badly that he did not even notice the temperature was dipping toward freezing outside, as he turned his coat collar up and attempted to walk off the memories that threatened to cause him to doubt reality.

After an hour of tramping through the Sussex midnight, he finally gave up the attempt and turned his steps toward what comprised his home.

Next morning, the physician sighed and wished dearly that the patient's friend would enter in the conventional way next time; not only was having to replace window-latches inconvenient, but explaining that they had been snapped by a retired detective's jemmy neared bizarre.


	76. Reassurance II

There were still dark days, to be sure – neither of them would soon forget the night when, unable to properly express himself, his poor friend's seemingly endless patience with himself and others finally snapped.

He had been sitting on the bed while his exhausted friend prepared to retire for the night, and he was completely shocked when his trivial offer to help Watson untie his boots was met with a furious "I don't _want_ your help…or any-one else's either!", for he had never seen him so frustrated before.

He was further shocked to realise the blindly moving fist was aimed either at him or the wall, but his reflexes were quick enough to prevent both.

"Stop it," he commanded, catching the half-hearted swing with one hand and Watson's shoulder with the other, giving him a sharp shake.

He was even further shocked when the anger boiling in his friend's eyes immediately evaporated, leaving only heartbroken helplessness. He started when Watson's head slumped forward against his shoulder, hands clenching convulsively on the front of his jacket, and slowly put his arms around him as he struggled to retain a tattered composure.

He wished desperately that he could think of something more helpful than a murmured "It's all right, old fellow," but he could not.

He said it anyway, hoping that it or a reassuring grip might be in some way beneficial.


	77. Reversal

He should have realised from Watson's unusual exhaustion that week and the absence of any real appetite, should have been able to deduce what the physicians only suspected but had no proof of – that the man was pushing himself so hard in the solitude of his room that he was straining to a near-breaking point and his health was suffering because of his stubborn determination to regain his abilities at an unhealthily rapid rate.

How could he have been so foolish, as to let his own impatience with the slowness of recovery somehow seep into their conversation? Of course Watson would pick up on his loneliness and his wish for normality – he always _had_ been able to read between Holmes's lines.

It took a half-hour of gentle coaxing and quite a few minutes of silent, sympathetic embracing, however, before he was able to worm that confession from his friend. When he did, it was all he could do to not physically shake some sense into the exhausted man. He refrained, for Watson was trembling enough as it was, huddled against his shoulder as if he were the only stable thing in the universe –

- and he realised suddenly that that might possibly be the case, in _his_ universe.

_What a reversal of roles: fast anchor and storm-tossed ship_, he reflected bitterly.


	78. Reassurance III

"Oh, my dear fellow," he murmured helplessly, trying to calm his friend in the only (clumsy) way he knew. "I am so very sorry…I had no intention of making you feel so...I didn't mean…"

He felt a small shake of denial. "I know…it wasn't that," Watson whispered into his shoulder. "I just…hate being…" he coughed as his voice grew less thick, "…crippled," he finished sadly, shivering in Holmes's arms at the horrible word.

Said arms suddenly clenched tighter in a convulsive spasm of painful anger.

"_Never_ allow me to hear you say that again - do you understand me, Doctor?" Holmes snapped, his voice tightening. "Sustaining serious head trauma, defying all medical odds that you probably would be in no more than a vegetative state for the rest of your life upon your awakening, and then confounding the entire medical staff of one of the nation's finest sanatoriums by making a recovery that would have driven a lesser man – _including_ myself, Watson – to suicide or madness; that is _not_ the work of a _cripple_, you…you…" He paused for breath, and also to bite his tongue before he added insulting language to the tirade.

"Are you not even going to answer me?" he demanded finally.

He received a muffled whisper of half-hysterical laughter, followed by a weak cough. "Holmes…you're cho-king me…can't breathe…"


	79. Debt

Holmes's mortification and their ensuing laughter brought the physician in with an admonishment that the patient needed to sleep, and Mr. Holmes needed to stop exciting him.

Mr. Holmes promptly told him what he could do with his medical advice, sending the patient into further pillow-muffled snickering, and was threatened half-heartedly with forcible eviction before the poor physician gave up in despair (absently making a note to just have a cot wheeled into the room nightly from now on).

"Seriously, though," Watson murmured as he accepted Holmes's hesitant offer of help with his cuff-links. "You have been…so very patient. I can-not imagine…how mad-dening it must be to you."

"I can think of no more congenial way to lose my already-thin sanity," he rejoined cheerfully, turning toward the bureau.

"I wish…I could do some-thing…to repay you," he heard the despondent whisper behind him. "This place…it cannot be cheap…and you've given up every-thing…"

_Hence the over-exertion to leave,_ he realised with a sad fondness.

"Do you remember the first thing I said to you while you were unconscious?"

Watson blushed faintly as he nodded.

"I daresay, my dear fellow, that three months of enforced patience with you hardly is ample imbursement of a three-year debt. Do not look at me that way; heaven knows it would take me years to even the balance."


	80. Doubt

He stayed by the window, to all appearances looking out into the night but in reality watching his friend in gaslit, glassy reflection. He winced as Watson paused in helpless concentration, obviously trying to remember how to untie his cravat.

He would not sully Watson's pride for the entire world, specially after tonight, and so refused to help, resting his aching head upon the cold glass.

A bitter wind wailed 'round the eaves, sending a shiver over him at the thought of walking back to a dark cottage again. He had to be strong for Watson's sake, however, and refused to dwell on the darkness – as the man himself had taught him in those bleak days while he was endeavouring to give up that accursed cocaine. Dwell on the light, he had said.

He turned as Watson wearily crawled under the blankets, sound asleep even before he made it across the room.

He was alive, and improving – he must hold to that, for that was the light. Someday Watson would be able to converse in long sentences, to laugh at Holmes's stories, to move without having to think about it.

Someday, he would be able to walk again, long strolls along the beach and cliffs.

_Wouldn't he?_

It was hard to reach the light when his heart was shrouded in blackness.


	81. Haunted

He could feel it hovering over him, only waiting for the cover of a cloudy, ghostlike night to close in upon him, and he shivered at the bleak despair that seeped around, just as the wraiths of fog were twisting about his ankles.

He was shaking when he reached the deserted cottage, and lost no time in curling up miserably under his soft goose-down comforter, the one Mrs. Hudson had made for him (Watson had gotten a matching one) one freezing Christmas in Baker Street.

He wondered sadly if those precious days were gone, _forever_ – not the investigations or the city or the thrilled excitement; just…evenings in front of a glowing fire, sometimes comfortable and sometimes comforting. Conversations long into the night, sporadic rambles through the lanes and alleys of London.

Even the lonely, dark nights, when he would either snap himself awake or else be awakened by an understanding hand and empathetic voice – and then the rest of the horrible nights spent in front of the fire, talking quietly as the hours limped by.

Now there was no one to awaken him from the terrors of his own mind; Watson had plenty to worry about without wasting concern on his twisted dreams.

That did not make him any less afraid to close his eyes and face what the night would bring.


	82. Admit

He knew it might wound Watson to abandon him for an entire day, but he simply had to get away from it all; so in the dawn he sent a note saying he had gone to London on business.

Said business entailed no more than invading his brother's apartment, frightening the elder half to death by collapsing across his sitting-room settee, pale and looking worse than he had in weeks.

"I cannot take it anymore, Mycroft," he cried softly, feverishly clutching at the pillow he had knocked askew and picking at a loose seam. "I can't watch him do this day after day, struggling to even _live_ – there is nothing I can do, and it is killing me!"

Mycroft Holmes was nearly as horrified that he was unraveling the seams in his precious sofa pillows than that he was dangerously close to bursting into exhausted tears.

"When was the last time you slept properly?"

"For how long?" The subdued answer bespoke the truth more than the dark circles under the younger's eyes.

"Longer than an hour, preferably."

The younger man sighed and wearily slumped down onto the poor pillow. "I can't remember," he admitted.

"Well how the devil do you expect to be able to take care of him if you are not taking care of yourself?" demanded the older brother.


	83. Facade

"Do you really suppose he wants you berating yourself over something you cannot control?"

"He doesn't know," the younger whispered. "I've taken care not to let him see…it's just that at night, it's so horrible –"

"Sherlock." The elder sighed. "Do you _really_ suppose you have been able to hide it? The man may be injured but is not dim-witted – especially where you are concerned. And you are not as good at hiding things from people who care about you as you think you are, brother mine. Do cease the fruitless attempt and simply _talk_ about it, rather than keeping it to yourself and and dwelling on it."

"He has too many other things to worry about, without being forced to listen to my mental disturbances –"

"You can be such an _idiot_, Sherlock, that I sometimes wonder if you truly are a relation," the older man rumbled. "Do you truly think that you are the only one who is harboring such despair? Has it ever crossed your mind that _he_ no doubt is feeling the same, but is too sparing of your feelings to ask you to _listen_?"

The younger brother flew into a sitting position, his eyes wide in dawning realization, and then buried his face in his hands with a moan. "Mycroft…how could I have been so blind!"


	84. Incentive

The world was changing into a brilliantly-hued sunset by the time he summoned the courage to return.

He hesitantly entered, to discover that Watson was sitting silently in the bath-chair by the window, hands folded in his lap and legs covered with an afghan, staring out at the pink-orange flames spreading across the sky. He was wearing nightclothes covered by his dressing-gown, and neither he nor the room bore any signs of activity.

Worse still, he flinched when Holmes laid a hand on his shoulder in greeting, moving to sit opposite him.

"How was London." Not a question, more a breaker of the deathly silence that cloaked the room.

"I only saw the inside of my brother's flat," Holmes replied softly. "I wanted…some answers. And instead he sat me down and lectured me quite thoroughly."

He received a ghosting of a smile, but not the genuine article. He ran a cold finger around his collar and tried again. "How was your day, old chap?" he asked with enforced brightness. "The sun was shining brilliantly when I left, and I saw someone's decorated the halls out there with autumn foliage and flowers…."

Silence announced its presence and made him cringe instinctively, even before the dull words finally fell.

"I hadn't noticed," Watson murmured listlessly. "I spent most of the day in bed…"


	85. Confess

This had to stop.

"I'm sorry I had to leave so abruptly, my dear fellow," he began cheerfully. "I needed to…" He trailed off, the voice of his conscience screaming at him too loudly to allow him to speak his prepared and practiced excuses.

Watson's listless gaze sharpened instantly and went from restless carpet-examining straight to his face. "What?"

He could feel perspiration beginning to wilt his collar, though the room was rather chilly. "I…was running from you, Watson – no, no, no, my dear fellow, not like that, I promise," he added hastily, seeing the hurt begin to dim Watson's eyes. "I had to get away from – from seeing you fighting so hard and still not accomplishing what you want to. I can't stand to see you like this. Oh, please don't look like that, Watson; it is not seeing you invalided, for that changes _nothing_ in my eyes – but seeing you fight so hard, harder than anyone should ever have to…and still be in so much pain, so exhausted…it just…just simply isn't fair, and _I hate it_." His voice had been constricted to a small whisper, as the unusual strain of admitting the truth suddenly lightened his heart but tightened his throat.

Watson's eyes were as round in realisation as the harvest moon shining through the window. "You…ohhhh…" he breathed.


	86. Pretend

Not for the first time, Watson had again employed that peculiar power he monopolized – the power to thoroughly confuse the world's most brilliant detective.

"I…what did you _think_ I was doing?" he demanded, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Watson's eyes were either shining or glistening, he could not tell which in the fading light. "There have been – are – times, 'specially lately, when…" he fumbled for a fractional second before continuing, "when…I absolutely despise myself, for…for being so helpless," he whispered as a faint flush stained his pale face.

Holmes went suddenly cold and rigid, his rapid mind already seeing the end result of that train of thought.

"I…would never be able…to stand it, if…if I thought you…despised me too," he finally gasped out, though the confession cracked the facade of stalwart strength that he had been hiding behind for weeks now. "Or at least regretted…the decision you made…t-to care for me," he managed to add before his composure crumbled completely.

Holmes was too aghast at this horrible thought to even register the fact that he could not remember a time when Watson had been despondent – frustrated, yes, but never dark and depressed; always optimistic and hopeful. He should have _known_ it was an act – should have seen this coming long ago!

Mycroft had no idea how right he had been.


	87. Confusion

"Watson, how could you ever _think_ such a thing?" he demanded, harshly so as to mask the breaking of his horrified voice.

"I – I don't know," Watson gasped, burying his face in awkward hands. "I – there are just some-times I…I can't re-mem-ber…I think of things, but I c-can't tell if they were just dreams…or if they really hap-pened…"

He was still having difficulties with his memory, then – another thing he had hidden too well. It was indeed time for Holmes to retire, if he was so slow as to not be able to successfully observe his closest friend. He could not imagine what horrors a confused and trapped mind could conjure. Why had he not insisted on staying nights despite the physician's protests? How many times had Watson awakened, alone and terrified in the darkness, and had to deal with the demons all alone?

Thoroughly ashamed, he now wished to just crawl into a hole and hide from the entire world. Instead he climbed onto his knees in the armchair and placed a supportive hand on his friend's back. As Watson silently trembled, his hand slowly moved up and down in an awkward effort to comfort as best he knew how.

He knew that this was one night that neither of them would be sleeping until they learned to communicate better.


	88. Resolution

It took five hours, a few bitter arguments, and many, many tears on both sides – but finally they reached an amicable agreement to not keep anything from each other in the future.

There had been a few uncomfortable moments when Watson had bitterly said that he did not see how it was any different for him to hide his lack of recognition than it was for Holmes to hide much more than that in past years – how the detective wished that _those_ were memories he had forgotten, not far less harmful things! – and a few more later on when Holmes's patience snapped, and he told Watson if the man did not stop referring to himself as "handicapped," he would physically thrash some sense into him and _make_ him truly handicapped.

A passing orderly looked askance at the room when a rather weak giggle emerged, followed by a sudden burst of rueful, strident laughter. New to the place, he had thought that the sanatorium specialised in mentally damaged people, not madmen…but perhaps the two went together?

The physician dryly voiced something of the same opinion in the morning, when he found that, despite the cot they had put in the room specially for him, Mr. Sherlock Holmes had decided to sprawl on the settee beside the peacefully sleeping occupant of the bath-chair.


	89. White

After that memorable night, there were still dark days; but no longer did they attempt to brave them alone. Another fortnight passed, bringing the total up to slightly over three months of recovery and pushing them into the middle of December.

Holmes returned to London one afternoon to drop off a small token to Mrs. Hudson and stay for tea, to break into Mycroft's apartment and leave him a small gift and letter of thanks signed by him and Watson, to pop into Scotland Yard to say good-bye and good-luck to Lestrade upon his retirement, and then to wander the streets in an ill-tempered fit, wondering what the blazes he should get Watson for Christmas. Finally something in a Bond Street shop window caught his eye, and he smiled at long last.

He returned the next morning to find Watson well-rested and cheerful, being wheeled down to one of the sitting rooms in the sanatorium; he wanted to see the Christmas tree the staff had put up. The nurse was happy to relinquish the chair to Holmes, and Watson scarcely less glad.

"I have to say one good thing about the country – the snow here is white, not grey like it is in London," Holmes reported over Watson's head, eyeing the slushy wake his dripping coat and boots were leaving behind.


	90. Green

He told Watson of all he had seen while in London, with the exception of one event. It had given him great pleasure to attend the hanging for treason of those three double agents, but he would not breathe a word of the matter aloud. It was the season for cheer, not painful memory, and he would honour that in his heart and actions.

Behind him he heard an intern squawk about the wet flooring, and he guiltily hastened the pace. It was worth the tongue-lashing, however, to hear Watson's laugh again; it illuminated the room brighter than the candles on the greenery ever could.

They spent a pleasant afternoon playing chess – Holmes had suggested it as a way to stimulate Watson's logical faculties, and while he had never much liked the game (because Holmes always won) Watson had agreed, realising the value of the strategy.

Rather insulted that Holmes played without his queen to even the odds and _still _managed to beat him four successive times, Watson pouted until he laughed and offered to repay his friend by playing carols on his violin, an offer which was readily accepted.

He had no idea half the institution had stopped to listen to his rather talented rendition of _Silent Night _until a chorus of enthusiastic applause greeted his lowering of the bow.


	91. Red

His face mirrored the crimson berries on the holly as he ducked back into his chair beside Watson, who was also applauding, eyes shining. Upon being asked by a physician if he would continue after dinner, he was about to refuse when Watson turned a silently beseeching gaze upon him, and he felt his resistance melt like the snowflakes were upon the warm windowpanes.

His growled acceptance was met with a chorus of delighted exclamations, only one of which held any interest; and he promptly shooed a gaggle of nurses away, much to their giggling amusement.

When the room grew deserted again as most medical staff returned to duties and most patients retired for afternoon naps, he glared at Watson, who only blinked tolerantly.

"So what else did you do in London?" he asked, accepting the cup of tea Holmes had asked a nurse to bring.

Holmes raised a mischievous eyebrow. "Are you not-very-subtlely angling to discover if this package is your Christmas gift?" He grinned as Watson blushed like a child caught peeking inside a present. "It is, but you shan't open it yet. No, do not bother to look at me like that; I am quite impervious to your – stop it, Watson, you know it isn't going to…No, I am not…oh, for heaven's sake, just open the blasted box."


	92. Hope

"I trust you will not think me tactless, my dear chap," he hastened to explain as Watson unwrapped the package in the childish glee that could only come of being cooped up indoors for days on end, seeing no one and doing practically nothing

Watson had got the box open by this point and pulled out one of the handsomest walking-sticks he had ever seen, much less held in his hands. Gleaming, glossy wood with a spotless silver tip and top, engraved with his name and a personal inscription, it was undoubtedly a handsome piece and for a moment he gaped open-mouthed at its shining brilliance.

Holmes smiled, more pleased than Watson himself – he had been slightly worried that it might appear a tasteless item in lieu of the man's condition. "They do say it is the season for hope, and I want us both to not soon forget it…" he murmured awkwardly, wishing he had Watson's gift for word-crafting.

Watson's shimmering eyes reflected momentarily in the polished wood. "It's beautiful," he said simply, and because further words would not come at the moment. "Thank you, Holmes."

He bobbed his head cheerfully while Watson admiringly examined the silver knob upon the stick's top. "You know…I of course have been unable to get you a gift," he said softly, sighing a bit.


	93. Surprise

"Psh, I need nor want more than I possess, dear chap," he replied contentedly.

"All the same…I do have something for you," Watson continued, running a nervous finger along glossy wood.

"Oh?" He perked up instantly, for Watson looked as if he were about to burst with secrecy.

Watson nodded, smiling shyly. "First…would you do something for me?"

"Certainly."

"Would you stand over there? By the tree. That's good." Watson swallowed nervously. "Now promise me that, whatever happens, you will not budge from that spot."

"But –"

"Promise."

"I promise," he vowed curiously, and stood motionless.

His eyes widened as Watson carefully placed the blanket aside, and then just as carefully slid forward in the chair.

He gasped when Watson took the walking-stick and slowly rose to his feet…

…and stayed standing.

He realised he had forgotten to breathe as Watson took one slow, methodical step forward. Then another, and another – painstakingly slowly, but so very steadily and confidently, his brow furrowed in furious concentration.

Even had he not promised, he was unable to move from shock, as his supposedly immobile friend _walked_, infuriatingly calmly, up to him and then finally looked up, perspiring and gasping heavily but fairly bursting with pride.

And it was only then, when his vision blurred dangerously, that he realised he had still forgotten to breathe.


	94. Miracle

He choked in more tears than oxygen and nearly asphyxiated himself right then and there.

Concerned, Watson reached out and nearly lost his balance, gasping in fear as he wobbled unsteadily.

His vision cleared after he blinked, just in time to see his friend frantically trying to regain his upset equilibrium. Watson started to fall with a small cry of dismay, but he took one jump forward and was there to catch him. He staggered with the added weight and then hid his burning eyes in a familiar smoking-jacket.

"You – y-you _idiot_, why didn't you _tell _me you were…?" he gasped into Watson's shoulder, which was trembling with mingled amusement and strain as he dropped the stick and reached up to pat Holmes's back in wordless comfort.

"That…would have ruined the surprise," Watson replied, the smile evident though Holmes could not see his face – could not see anything clearly. "…Holmes? Dear fellow...are you all right?"

Why could he not answer?

And more importantly – if he was so unspeakably happy, why the devil was he _crying_?

Watson understood – he always had, actually – and fondly chuckled. "You were right in that it is the season for joy and hope, my dear Holmes," he said softly. "But you neglected to remember…it is also the season for miracles."

He had never believed in miracles before.


	95. Epilogue

That year, March uncharacteristically came in like a lamb, bringing with it an early spring that was unusually mild. Balmy breezes and sunshine greened the Downs and warmed the Channel. Holmes banged the cottage door and dropped his packages on the table, snatching the folder from London as he moved into the sitting room, where Watson was sitting on the sofa with his knees drawn up, scribbling in one of his journals.

He glanced up as Holmes entered. "Back early?"

Holmes snorted. "The trains were actually on schedule for once." He sprawled himself across an armchair and brandished the folder haphazardly. "Are you certain you want to do this? I can always tell Mycroft no."

"Quite certain," Watson replied cheerfully. "You would go mad being _completely_ retired. The world still needs a Sherlock Holmes, even if he is relegated to non-dangerous field work."

"And Sherlock Holmes still needs his biographer," he replied with a fond smile.

Watson returned the gesture somewhat shyly and waved the notebook. "I am ready when you are, Holmes."

"Capital!" The detective beamed. "But before I go over this case, I…want to tell you something."

"Yes?" Watson asked gently.

"You may not want to go outside, back of the cottage for a while."

Watson blinked. "…Why?"

"You remember when I said I was interested in farming bees...?"


End file.
